


Hide and Tag

by Greyland94



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Hide and Seek, Tickles, fluff?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-22
Updated: 2014-01-22
Packaged: 2018-01-09 16:35:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1148248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greyland94/pseuds/Greyland94
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is being pursued in the forest by our very own consulting detective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hide and Tag

**Author's Note:**

> John does have a bit of a potty mouth in this, so if you don't like any cursing with your fanfiction, you might want to steer clear.

John is jogging down a dirt trail next to a small, gurgling creek, the sound of the running water slightly masking the sound of his feet hitting the ground and his ragged panting. Old trees stretch high above him into the sky, their branches like arms shading him from most of the afternoon sunlight. Sweat is beading on his nose and trickling uncomfortably down his back and chest. His calves and shins are burning, his ankles ache, and his hands feel swollen. The air smells warm; like dry plant life, sunlight and dust. He slows his steps without stopping, and takes a few gulps of water from the metal canteen attached to his small backpack. The water is warm (not surprisingly) and he grimaces at its stale taste, but knows that he needs to replenish the liquids that his body is quickly sweating out.

In a sudden, terrifying moment that makes his heart stop, John hears a dry branch snap. He freezes momentarily. _Oh, shit, he's found me_ is the last conscious thought that goes through his head before he breaks into a desperate sprint. John's feet pound on the dirt as he crashes frantically through the trees, off the beaten path. He leaps over fallen trees as thin branches rake over his face. Dead leaves rustle, crushed under his feet as he runs blindly, no longer making an effort to keep quiet. This game has turned from "hide and seek" to "run, motherfucker, run".

All of a sudden, something (no, he realizes almost immediately, someone) solid and muscular slams into him, not only bringing him to a stop but taking him down to the forest floor on his back. The air is forced out of his lungs with a short grunt of surprise. A man is sitting on John's burning legs looking down at him with a grin that speaks only of triumph. If John hadn't known for a fact that the other man had been running as fast, if not faster than he’d just been running, the only evidence that Sherlock (for that was who it was, beyond any reasonable doubt) had exerted any energy at all in catching him is the slight tinge of pink on his pale cheeks and the faintest glow of sweat on his forehead. He’s not even breathing hard, and his hair is still in those perfect curls, that bastard.

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John growls, struggling to get the other man off of him, “you’re disturbingly good at this.”

Sherlock ignores John's feeble attempts to escape and sighs dramatically. “It was much too easy to track you, John. Your footprints were not only distinct, they were everywhere, and followed the set path. You made no attempt to cover your trail, so it wasn't challenging in the least to follow you at a safe distance. It was easier still after I had you panicked and crashing through the trees like a madman (which was extremely amusing to watch, by the way). This isn't much practice at all for my tracking skills. You really should put a bit more effort into this exercise.”

John groans in frustration and gives up the effort, knowing how stubborn Sherlock can be. “You can get off now, Sherlock, there's pine needles stabbing me in the arse,” he sighs, limbs going limp in defeat.

Sherlock sits quietly for a moment, looking down at his pinned prey. Then, an evil grin crosses his face. John knows that look far too well.

“Oh, hell no, Sherlock. Don’t you even think about it!” John growls, dangerously quiet. Undeterred by the threatening tone in John's voice, Sherlock raises his slender hands and wiggles his fingers teasingly. Then, he strikes.

“GET YOUR BLOODY HANDS OFF ME! YOU LITTLE SHIT,” John wheezes as threateningly as he can while the detective begins to tickle him, “OR I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL END YOU.”

Sherlock ceases his assault and leans forward so his lips are close to John's ear. Then he whispers:  
"You're it."

Before John can even react, Sherlock leaps away and disappears into the trees, completely silent except for his deep, chuckling laughter, leaving John to slap a hand over his eyes and protest in vain.

**Author's Note:**

> So yes, as always I would love your feedback. I realize this is the second time I have had tickles in a fic, but what can I say? I have a soft spot for tickles. As long as it's not me who's being tickled.  
> ANYWAY. Let me know of any mistakes in spelling, grammar, or wording that you may stumble across. Thanks for the read!


End file.
